


A Tale of Two Captains

by Megg33k



Category: Doctor Who (2005), Sherlock (TV), Torchwood
Genre: Anal Sex, Depressing sex, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-06
Updated: 2012-11-06
Packaged: 2017-11-18 03:30:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/556404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Megg33k/pseuds/Megg33k
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When a doctor stands in for a tea boy and a time-traveler stands in for a detective, both men just close their eyes and pretend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Tale of Two Captains

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lockedin221b](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lockedin221b/gifts).



> This is all Z's fault. Blame her.

When a doctor stands in for a tea boy and a time-traveler stands in for a detective, both men just close their eyes and pretend. They touch and feel and comfort and heal. Because John, the healer, understands, and Jack, the man who loses everyone, still remembers how he felt the very first time. So, the warm bodies in the darkened room do whatever feels right and pretend not to notice the tang of salt water on one another’s cheeks.

And no one speaks, not really. When wrong names are whispered through gritted teeth, nobody even blinks. Because there is no one available to cast the first stone when everyone in the room is a sinner. Especially when everyone means both, and sainthood is so overrated. And, if by virus or if by fall, love unspoken or lived out loud, no amount of time will ever be enough. The grief will never truly end, and by grief, I mean regret… and by regret, I mean guilt. In the end, the living bodies in their arms are better than the corpses they try to forget, the ones burned onto the back of their eyelids.

So, when the time-traveler offers to be a detective, the doctor accepts his fate as a tea boy, and they fall into one another’s arms. Woolen jumpers and military coats shed, two captains grip one another tightly and try to forget. Breath and lips, tongues and teeth, flesh aflame with touch for the first time in far too long.

Talented fingers tease at a virgin entrance before disappearing within. The grunt-gasp of pleasure-pain assaults the silence in the room and fills it as John is also filled. Filled with digits and slowly stretched, a gentle burn with the offer of something more. And more is exactly what he wants, what _they_ want… what they _need_.

It isn’t long before puckered flesh, slick and ready… waiting… wanting, is met with rigid cock, hard and leaking… aching… pulsing. Upward it presses… up, up, up, and in. Soon it’s buried to its hilt, its human sheath a moaning, writhing mess. The grind of needy hips against eager thighs, a blogger in the lap of a spaceman. Teeth sink into shoulders, and fingernails mar the flesh over trapezii and latissimi dorsi. The rhythmic rocking-bouncing-pounding, in and out, in and out. Groans grow and change and evolve and eventually turn to screams as hot fluid shoots between sculpted bodies.

Hips buck as muscles clench, the death grip of climax slowly loosening its hold. With one man spent, collapsed, the other presses on. With his lover sated, selfishness is expected. And after a life already too long lived, selfishness comes easier than Jack would like to admit. He empties himself in a few swift thrusts, gasping as if he were coming back to life… and, for the briefest moment, perhaps he did.

But all joy is fleeting, all contentment quick to fade. Their lovers are still dead, and facsimiles rarely possess the quality of the original. One regrets never knowing the archetype, the other covets never knowing what he lost. The grass is always greener on the other side of the graveyard.

Two men, equally lost and so alone, use each other as they’re being used. They both seek a comfort so hard to find. After too long a wait one will find it in life, the other forced to wait for a death that may never come to pass. John’s revered ghost will one day return, each of Jack’s brushes with death giving him a glimpse of his fallen love just out of reach.

But temporarily, they are the same. Wandering space in search of a cure for wounds healed only by linear time. Chronology: the only plaster that can mend their hearts.

They dress in silence. Still no one speaks, not really. Soft, shameful whimpers do not words make. A knowing kiss before they part, for an instant or for a lifetime… but for that moment, they had each other, and that would have to be enough.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry... I'm so sorry!


End file.
